Top Chef Sandford
by Firebird9
Summary: How exactly does one go about preparing scrambled eggs?


**Top Chef Sandford**

**Author: **Firebird

**Rating: **T (Language)

**Disclaimer:** Neither Hot Fuzz, nor its characters, nor its settings, are mine. They are all used here without permission.

**Author's Note:** Hey, another fic. And this one's full of light and fluff. Mmm, fluff.

Nicholas and Danny are arguing. Again. Given the dynamics of their friendship this is hardly unusual. Doris, who has three brothers, understands this perfectly well and is usually content to ignore it. This is proving impossible today, however, because the argument in question is not only less good-natured than usual but is also taking place rather noisily in the kitchen of her very small flat, and, barring roadworks right outside, it's probably the last thing she needs to wake up to after a night out.

"What on earth are you doing?" Nicholas, sounding grumpy and impatient.

"Makin' scrambled eggs, what's it look like?" Danny, sounding about as irritable as the good-natured younger man ever gets.

"Okay, that is not how you make scrambled eggs."

"What're you talkin' about? Eggs, milk, fryin'-pan. Scrambled eggs."

Doris feels like her head is about to explode. What the hell possessed her to let them crash at her place anyway? Oh, right, rain. Lots of rain, just on chucking-out time at the pub. Her place was closest. Which doesn't explain how they're capable of arguing this early in the morning. She pries her eyes open enough to stare blearily at the clock. It glares back pitilessly, confirming that it's not that early after all.

"You put the eggs in the bowl first, then the milk."

"What? What difference does that make?"

"It's so that you get the proportions right."

"Proportions? 'm makin' eggs, not sittin' a maths exam."

Except that Danny never really suffers from hangovers, and Nicholas just gets pale and grumpy, which pretty much sums Nicholas up most of the time anyway, so he's either a closet alcoholic or another one of those bastards who can drink as much as he likes without apparent ill-effect.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Heatin' the fryin'-pan so's I can melt the butter."

"You've got it set too high. The butter'll burn. And you shouldn't be using a frying-pan anyway."

Water. She needs water. She gropes on her nightstand for a glass, but there's only a bare swallow left, and she resigns herself to the fact that she's going to have to get up if she wants anything else. Tea might help. She's not making coffee, though. She made the mistake of giving the boys coffee after a night out once before. Didn't seem to affect Danny much, but Nicholas, who only ever drinks coffee when he's hung over, was a whole other story. It didn't make him any less pale and grumpy, but it did leave him in a state of hyperactivity similar to that of a six-year-old who'd mainlined sugar and E-numbers for breakfast. A pale, grumpy hyperactive six-year-old. The Andys had made her swear on a plate of Jaffa cakes to never, ever do that to them again. Ever.

"Yeah? What should I be usin' then, Nigella?"

"Nigella? All the male celebrity chefs out there, and you're going with Nigella?"

"Yeah, you're right. You're more of a Gordon Ramsey. Miserable, opinionated bastard."

"And you're what, Jamie Oliver? And, to answer your question, you should be using a saucepan."

"Why the fuck would I fry eggs in a saucepan? 'sides, the frying-pan's already dirty; it'll just mean more dishes."

"You're not frying them, you're scrambling them. Scram-bling. With a whisk."

Doris tries to muster what little energy and enthusiasm she has towards the task of rising. Their bickering is starting to turn nasty, and if they're going to move from verbal sparring to physical then she'd prefer they did it someplace other than her kitchen. Movement makes the world spin slightly, and there's a moment when she thinks she may throw up, but Danny and Nicholas's voices still manage to penetrate the mixture of thumping and ringing that's playing like a private audio-feed in her ears.

"Yeah, you whisk 'em in the bowl. Then you pour 'em into the fryin'-pan an' sort of poke 'em around with a spatula until they're done."

"No you don't."

"No, _you_ don't. I do. How'd you make 'em then, Gordon?"

"You pour the whisked mixture into a heated saucepan, then you keep whisking them while they cook. Simple."

"Well, that's not how my mum taught me to do it."

There's a pregnant pause, and Doris lurches urgently towards her dressing-gown. The Dead Mother card has been played. Danny almost never plays the Dead Mother card, and when he does it's a clear signal to back off. Except that Nicholas is a tactless bastard at the best of times, and right now is hardly the best of times, what with him being all grumpy and hungover-y, so she can't guarantee that he'll even pick up on the signal, let alone pay attention if he does.

"You sayin' my mum didn't know how to make scrambled eggs?"

"I'm not saying anything about your mum. Just that she obviously taught you a different way of making them."

This, Doris surmises, is grumpy, hungover-y Nicholas trying to be conciliatory, and failing miserably.

"I don't care how either of you makes 'em," she snarls as she storms – okay, stumbles blearily – into the open-plan living area. "I'm hungry, I'm hung over, and I want to eat, not listen to you two arguin'. Now, if you'll both sit down, _I _will fix the bloody eggs, and neither of you will say _one fucking word_ about _how_ I fix 'em."

She runs herself a tall glass of water – oh, sweet, sweet water – and glares at them both as they slink, cowered, towards the dining table. Then she makes them scrambled eggs _her_ way, the way her mother taught her, which is, of course, the only proper way of fixing scrambled eggs and is completely different from either of their ridiculous methods. They both agree that her scrambled eggs are the best they have ever tasted, and unanimously declare that from now on she is the uncontested Nigella Lawson of the Sandford Police Service. Which is, of course, exactly as it should be.


End file.
